Voice for Princess (v1.1)

by John Morressy

  Impressed by the speed with which bread, cheese, and ale vanished, Kedrigern decided to use Buroc in an experiment. Leaving Princess to pack their food for the journey, he filled a sack with objects captured in one of his blind gropings into the future. They were small cylindrical things of bright metal, wound in bands of colored paper marked with symbols and pictures. At first he had assumed that they were talismans of some unintelligible magic, but he had learned, by dint of much exertion, that they were actually foodstuffs protected by a nearly impenetrable shell of metal. He could not imagine how they had been gotten into their shells in the first place, or why, or who or what might eat such things, or how they went about it. If Buroc could do anything to answer any of these questions, it would be a great help.

  He glanced about his study. It was cluttered with paraphernalia, much of it from that remote future age whence came the cylinders. He had learned very little about the period so far, aside from the fact that it contained a great variety of mysterious objects, most of them shiny. But his investigations were still in their infancy.

  Outside, he pulled a cylinder from the bag and tossed it to Buroc. “Food, Buroc. Good. Eat,” he said rubbing his stomach.

  Buroc bit down on the cylinder, frowned, and took it from his mouth. After staring at it for some time, he laid it on a stump, drew a huge, heavy dagger, and brought the dagger down hard, splitting the object in two. He picked up one half, sucked at it, tossed it aside, and did the same with the other half. “More,” he said.

  Kedrigern tossed him the sack, and Buroc treated himself to a dozen more, leaving the dooryard littered with glinting metal. “Skin tough. Meat good,” the barbarian said.

  So that was how one enjoyed the contents of those metal cylinders. A dark thought came to Kedrigern. This remote age into which his magic had extended might be peopled by barbarians like Buroc. He pictured a landscape littered with shards of scrapped metal trodden by huge barbarian feet, and shuddered. Perhaps it was a sign that the alchemists would triumph in the end; it was the kind of world to gladden their hearts.

  Buroc led them to where two shaggy horses stood tethered, grazing complacently. He mounted the larger one, leaving the smaller one for the wizard and the lady. Kedrigern mounted, and reached down to swing Princess up before him.

  They traveled in silence for some time. Kedrigern was absorbed in his troubled speculations, Princess was fascinated by the unfamiliar sights, and Buroc was completely occupied with keeping to the trail. The way led through pleasant open countryside, across meadows full of wild flowers and down a fragrant woodland track, then through a valley to the outskirts of a little market town. Kedrigern, still deep in thought, grunted in surprise as Princess squeezed him tightly and clung to him in fear.

  The town was a grisly sight. Smoke hung in the air, only now beginning to dissipate on a gentle breeze. Doorways and windows gaped, and the village church was open to the skies. Above whirled flights of crows, and Kedrigern saw a wolf start from their path. When they came upon the first bodies, he raised his hand to caress Princess’s head, buried in his shoulder, and worked a small concealing magic to hide the desolation from her. He could feel her shivering.

  “It’s all right now, my dear,” he whispered.

  “Brereep,” she said faintly, not moving her head.

  Buroc reined his mount to a halt and made a sweeping gesture. “Buroc do this,” he announced.

  “Why?”

  The barbarian turned his little eyes on the wizard, held his gaze for a moment, then pointed to the ruins of the church. “Me burn.” Swinging his hand to indicate a heap of sprawled corpses, he said, “Me kill.” Jerking his horse’s head aside, he rode on, erect and proud in the saddle.

  At the sound of Buroc’s voice, Princess gave a little shudder and clung more tightly to Kedrigern.

  “Odd, isn’t it, my dear, how barbarians seem to have no knowledge whatsoever of the nominative singular pronoun?” he said by way of creating a distraction.

  “Brereep,” Princess said softly.

  “Yes, it’s always ‘me’ this and ‘me’ that with barbarians, particularly when they’re feeling boastful. Their grasp of proper grammatical usage is at about the lowest possible level compatible with spoken communication.” After a brief silence, he added, “I sometimes wonder if it’s just an affectation.”

  “Brereep?”

  “No, I really do.” Kedrigern fell silent again. They rode on for a time, then he laughed softly and furtively and whispered to her, “I sometimes picture them off by themselves, sitting around the fire all hairy and rank, far from the eyes of non-barbarians, dropping the pretense and cutting loose with long compound-complex sentences and sophisticated constructions in the subjunctive. Can’t you see it?”

  She laughed at the suggestion, and Kedrigern went on to spin it out ever more elaborately, happy to see her cheerful again. From time to time, as they proceeded, she glanced at Buroc, then at Kedrigern, and the two of them smothered laughter as children do at a solemn ceremony.

  For the most part, though, Kedrigern was thoughtful. He had traveled very litle in recent years, and the world he now saw was a far worse world than the one he had left. Nature was as lovely as ever, but where the hand of man had fallen all was blight, and ruination, and death. The barbarians were overrunning everything; what little they left, the alchemists pounded, and boiled, and burned in their insatiable hunger for gold.

  He felt a great foreboding that however he might struggle against the tide, the alchemists were going to win in the end. They would persist until they had turned every bit of base metal into gold, and their work would precipitate an age of chaos. The future world that Kedrigern had touched with his magic was sure to be a place of horrors, if he read the indications correctly. It was a troubling prospect, and he sank into gloom.

  Their journey was relatively quiet. They passed through three villages which lay in ruins and skirted two more, and at each one, Buroc stopped to point out the more gruesome scenes of carnage and destruction and claim credit for them loudly and ungrammatically. He evidenced a growing attentiveness to the reaction shown by Princess, and that disturbed Kedrigern. But at night, when they camped, the barbarian behaved himself. All the same, Kedrigern cast a precautionary spell around the tent which he and Princess shared.

  They came on the third day to a sunless valley where nothing grew. Carrion birds watched with interest from the twisted limbs of dead trees as the riders picked their way across this place of muck and stone toward a low hill that rose in its center. Only as they approached the last barren ground around the base of the hill did Kedrigern determine that the bristling outline of the mound before them was caused not by the remains of a forest but by bare poles thrust into the ground at disturbing angles. He felt the tingling of magic in the air, and reined in his horse, caling sharply to Buroc.

  “No farther! That place is protected.”

  Buroc jerked his horse to a halt and turned to face the wizard. On his flat face was the faint hint of a smile, making him appear even less pleasant than usual. He pointed to the hill. “Golden mountain,” he said.

  Kedrigern was annoyed with himself. He should have known. There were few better ways to keep people far distant than giving a place the appearance of a barrow-mound of the Old Race. He dismounted, and cautioning Princess to stay behind with the restless horse, he walked closer. The sensation of enchantment grew.

  He reached into his tunic and drew out his medallion. He raised it to his eye and sighted through the tiny aperture at its center.

  Before him rose a mound of gold. It was not a mountain; not even a fair-sized hill. But it would do. It was pure, glittering gold, flooding the gloomy valley with its light.

  Kedrigern tucked the medallion inside his tunic and rubbed his eyes wearily; using the Aperture of True Vision to penetrate a concealing spell was always a strain. When he looked again, the mound rose as before, like the trodden corpse of a giant hedgehog. He turned in time to see a flash of silve
r in Buroc’s hand, which the barbarian quickly removed from before his eye and dropped inside his furs.

  Kedrigern recognized the silver object, and a chill went through him. A lot of things that had puzzled him were suddenly clear.

  “How did you learn about the golden mountain, Buroc?” he demanded.

  “Man tell Buroc.”

  “Freely and cheerfully, I’m sure. And you went at once to find a wizard who could lead you there, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you, Buroc?”

  The barbarian looked at him, his smile gone. “Do magic. Buroc share gold,” he said.

  “No hurry, Buroc. I’m curious about this other wizard. Did you take something from him?”

  “Do magic,” Buroc said, and his voice was cold.

  “Right now I’m not interested in the golden mountain, I’m interested in the silver medallion that’s hanging around your filthy neck. You took it from a brother wizard.”

  The barbarian reached inside his fur tunic. He hesitated, then he drew out an empty hand. “Wizard give to Buroc. Mine.”

  “No wizard would give away his medallion. You came upon a brother wizard when his magic was low, and you kiled him. That’s how you found the golden mountain. But you don’t know how to break the enchantment, and you never will.” Kedrigern folded his arms and looked coolly and scornfully up at the mounted barbarian. “So, you great greasy heap of ignorant brutality, you can look until your greedy heart consumes itself, but you can never possess.”

  With a snarl of anger, Buroc sprang to the ground, drawing his long curving sword with smooth and practiced swiftness and charging at Kedrigern. The wizard stood his ground; the blade hummed down, then rebounded with the sharp crack of splintering crystal.

  Fragments of glinting steel spun through the air, and Buroc howled in pain and wrung his hands.

  Kedrigern moved his lips silently, extending his hand before him. With a shout, he flung a shriveling bolt of magic at the raging barbarian.

  It struck, and dissipated in a shower of light, and it was Kedrigern’s turn to cry out and nurse his hand. But worse than the pain of rebounded magic was the shock of realization—the power that protected him, protected Buroc. The medallion knew no loyalty but to its wearer. It betokened fellowship in the company of wizards, and it protected each wizard—while he wore it—from the magic of his felows.

  They faced one another, Kedrigern standing his ground, Buroc circling warily, each eager to strike but cautious from the first shock. Buroc, growling like a hungry dog, wrenched a jagged stone the size of a cauldron from the muddy ground. Raising it high overhead, he flung it squarely at the wizard’s chest. It shattered into gravel in midflight and fell like hard rain around them.

  “No use, Buroc. You can’t hurt me.”

  The barbarian, panting with anger as much as with exertion, glared at him, motionless, eyes glazing in a furious attempt at thought. After a time, a malicious grin cut across his face.

  “Buroc no hurt wizard. Wizard no hurt Buroc.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Wizard no hurt Buroc!” the barbarian repeated triumphantly.

  “Don’t gloat. You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

  With unnerving speed, Buroc turned and raced to Princess’s side. He seized her wrist in one huge hand, clutched her hair with the other, and roared, “Buroc hurt lady! Wizard try hurt Buroc, Buroc hurt lady!”

  Kedrigern felt his stomach flutter at the thought of Princess in Buroc’s power. In desperation, he aimed a spell at the barbarian’s tiny head. The recoiling force staggered him, and he heard Buroc’s laughter through a haze of pain.

  Princess’s shriek brought him to his senses.

  “I can’t reach him, Princess!” he cried. “The medallion protects him, just as it protects me. I’m helpless!”

  She writhed, and turned her frightened eyes on him. Buroc forced her closer, grinning with pleasure at this turn of events.

  Only one recourse remained to Kedrigern. His magic was useless against the barbarian, but it would work on Princess. It was dangerous for anyone to be subjected a second time to shape-changing enchantment, but anything was better than mauling and ravishment at Buroc’s hands. As a bird, Princess could escape; as a woman, she was lost.

  “Be brave, my dear. There’s still something I can do,” he said. And shaking his head to clear it, Kedrigern began to recite the necessary words, spurred by the sight of Princess’s struggles.

  Buroc pulled her to him. She clawed at his face, and he struck her hands aside. She tore at his tunic, while he laughed and lifted her off her feet to shake her violently. Still she clawed at him. Then, with a bright flash, the medallion flew through the air.

  Kedrigern abandoned his enchantment to catch the silver disk in flight. He dangled it by its chain and laughed aloud. Buroc flung Princess aside and hurled himself at the wizard, groping wildly for the medallion. Kedrigern raised his other hand, and Buroc froze in midair, then crashed to the ground with a loud splap and a spattering of mud. He was rigid as stone.

  Kedrigern rushed to Princess’s side and took her in his arms, holding her tight, stroking her hair, until she had stopped trembling. He led her, half carrying her, to the horse, and drew from his saddlebag a heavy cloak, which he threw over her shoulders.

  “You’re very brave, Princess. And quicker with your wits than I am,” he said.

  “Brereep?” she asked weakly.

  He glanced at Buroc. Already, the clarity of his outline was fading and crumbling as the petrifaction spell did its work. Soon the Flayer of God’s Earth would be no more than a curiously formed pile of gray stone. The general barbarity would, no doubt, continue; but Buroc’s special contribution would be missing.

  “Quick and painless, Princess. Better than he deserved, but under the circumstances I wanted something instantaneous. Anything more appropriate would have required more time than either of us could spare.” A glint of gold caught his eye. He stooped and took up the golden circlet, wiping it free of mud before replacing it gently on her brow. “We’ll leave with no more gold than we brought, if you have no objection, my dear.”

  “Brereep,” she said decisively.

  “I didn’t think you would.” He gestured vaguely toward the bristling barrow. “We know how to get back, and I doubt that anyone will stumble upon this and carry it off in the meantime. This valley is not a popular place. We’ve got time to work out our plans,” he said, swinging her up into the saddle.

  He mounted Buroc’s horse, and side by side they started back. He was silent for a time, deeply preoccupied, his expression serious. When he became aware of Princess’s curious gaze, he explained himself.

  “I may as well tell you now, my dear,” he said, sighing, “that pile of gold may well be more trouble than it’s worth. For one thing, it will take me a long time—you know the state of my library—just to locate the proper spell to disenchant it so we can actually pick it up and take it away. And then there’s the transporting. I’m certainly not going to work with a poltergeist again, so that means negotiating with movers, and guards, and all sorts of other people. And then we’ll have to worry about storing it properly. And then there’ll be all that travel… I think we’ll be better off if I just concentrate on finding the counterspell for you myself. Besides, the way things are going…” He sighed again and shook his head sadly.

  “Brereep?” she asked, laying a consoling hand on his. He smiled a wan smile, but said nothing, During the day he frequently murmured under his breath, and at night he cried out in his sleep, “Blasted alchemists! They’ll turn all the lead in the world into gold!” and gnashed his teeth.

  But at the very foot of Silent Thunder Mountain, Kedrigern raised his eyes from the dust and let out a soft cry of joy. “I think I’ve got it, Princess! The golden mountain… I’ve figured out. .” He clapped his hands and laughed aloud. Princess, unable to resist the display of gaiety, laughed along with him but looked upon him with open curiosity.

&
nbsp; “Once I’ve found the counterspell to help you, my dear— that’s the very first priority—we’ll beat those alchemists at their own game.”

  “Brereep?”

  “Simple. When they’ve turned all the lead in the world into gold, what will be the rare and precious metal? Lead! So we’ll outsmart them all. We’ll spell the golden mountain into lead! Isn’t that a briliant idea, my love?”

  “Brereep,” she said.

  Six

  the gifts of conhoon

  To the untrained eye, the medallions were indistinguishable one from the other. Even Kedrigern could not say with certainty which of the two had hung around his neck since the day he joined the guild, and which had belonged to one of his fellow wizards, nor could he guess which of his former colleagues had been so rudely parted from the powerful talisman. Foul play was a certainty; the victim’s identity remained a mystery.

  At times like this Kedrigern sorely missed Eleanor of the Brazen Head, but there was no sense in crying over cast spells. Eleanor was gone, leaving him with no quick and easy avenue to hidden knowledge. If a colleague or the entire guild were in trouble, he might be long in finding out the truth. And considering the way they had treated him, it would serve them right, he thought.

  But this was no time for pettiness or thoughts of revenge. He had a problem on his hands.

  The medallions lay side by side on his worktable. They were round, of a size to cover a man’s palm, about the thickness of a small fingernail’s breadth but as light as a dried leaf. One side was as smooth and slick as the peeled white of a hard-boiled egg. Around the rim of the other side ran a band of quaint and curious symbols cleanly and deeply incised into the metal. At the bottom was a geometric figure of crossing broken lines. At the upper edge, bounded by the rings to which the silver chain was attached, were two notches: the larger, the Cleft of Clemency; the smaller, the Kerf of Judgment. In the exact center was a tiny hole, the Aperture of True Vision.

  Kedrigern hefted the medallions in his hands and laid them gently in the pans of his balance. They came to rest on a perfect horizontal. He placed them back to back. They fitted so smoothly that he could scarce discern the crack of their junction. He turned them this way and that, squinted and peered and scrutinized, and at last came to the conclusion that they were indeed identical. Sighing, he replaced one medallion around his neck, laid the other on the table, and rang the dainty silver bell that stood close by his hand.